


Storie Maledetti di Fatato

by soy_em



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fairy Tale Curses, M/M, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: Sam's fallen into a cursed sleep. Rowena has ideas on what might cure him. Dean can't believe it could be true.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 35
Kudos: 205





	Storie Maledetti di Fatato

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Storie Maledetti di Fatato](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394735) by [TxDorA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TxDorA/pseuds/TxDorA). 



> Written for the Spn Reversebang 2020
> 
> Big thanks to my artist Txdora for the inspiration!
> 
> Thanks as ever to my beta NaughtyPastryChef - you're awesome!

Sleep comes over him suddenly, eyelids drooping, mouth cracked wide in an ear splitting yawn, limbs heavy and numbed. He wants softness, warmth, _safety_ , and he stumbles through the chill passages as fast as grumbling legs will carry him, heading to the one place he needs to be. His legs buckle as soon as they can, taking him down into comfort and security, cocooning him in the scent of home.

***

At first Dean thinks little of it, finding Sam asleep in his bed. Fuck knows Sam needs the sleep, he reasons. Their lives have been all go recently (although when aren’t they?) and Sam has barely had time to rest since what that bitch did to him. Sam’s the toughest, strongest man Dean knows, but even he has to crash at some point. And as for it being Dean’s bed - well who the fuck would want to sleep on Sam’s rock of a mattress? Dean’s memory foam is far superior, and it's beyond time Sam admitted that. He’s looking forward to that conversation when his brother wakes up - there’ll be a good few days of teasing Sam about his new love of comfort to keep Dean entertained.

With a long, fond look at his brother and a twitch in his hand that is definitely not a desire to stroke through Sam’s hair, Dean leaves him to it, closing the door softly behind him.

***

He’s a bit more surprised when Sam’s still not awake by late afternoon, his brother apparently taking the mother of all naps. Given the Winchester habit of sleeping four, five hours a night max, this is a really epic sleep from Sammy. He checks in again, long-honed instinct meaning he needs sight of his brother every few hours, but Sam’s still slumbering peacefully, face pink and eyes soft, one hand curled loosely by his head and his pretty little ass popping up the way it does whenever Sammy’s really comfortable.

Pressing his lips together, Dean humphs. He refuses to admit he’s just lonely, rattling around in the utilitarian cold of the Bunker alone all day. It’s just unlike Sammy to sleep this long.

***

By dinnertime, Dean’s had enough. Sleep is all very well, he mutters to himself, but a man needs food. Sustenance. Meat, ideally - though as he’d started preparing burgers to tempt Sam awake he’d found himself switching from beef to the bean mixture Sam adored. It’s edible, at least, if nothing compared to the real thing, and if Sam’s this exhausted… well. Dean can put up with the veggie alternative for one night. He’ll get them steaks for tomorrow.

Stalking down the corridor, he half expects Sam to meet him on the way, hair askew and eyes scrubbed with sleep. But there’s not a peep from his room, no sigh of long legs or giant hands or the grumbles of a waking Sammy.

Pushing open the door, Dean’s astonished to find Sam still asleep, still curled into the same position as before. His brother has always been a restless sleeper, from tiny little legs and chubby fists flying wildly when they were young to legs aching with growth flinging wildly about whenever they were forced to share a bed in their teens. Even the few times they’ve had to share as adults - there was only one bed left at the motel, crammed into Bobby’s spare when he had a full house, huddled together for warmth that one winter in Rufus’ cabin - Sam’s shifted about insistently, thighs flung over Dean one minute, ass poking against his groin the next. So to see Sam like this, still and peaceful, breath steady and not a twitch to be seen… well. Slow awareness creeps over Dean, reaching icy tendrils through his mind, setting up a tremble in his hands.

“Sammy,” he says, settling on the side of the bed, hand gripping one strong shoulder and shaking lightly. “Sammy. Dinner time.” It’s hard not to think of a life-time of this as he speaks, his hands waking Sam for school, for training, ever so gently if they needed to move fast after an injury on a hunt.

There’s no response, so Dean shakes a little harder, but still nothing. He reaches a shaking hand to stroke through Sam’s hair, adding a little tug that has always made Sam purr, expecting to see Sam’s eyes blink open slowly at this rarely-given pleasure. But Sam’s eyelashes don’t even flutter, his breathing doesn’t change cadence; there’s no sign of consciousness forthcoming at all.

Truly frightened now, heart beating a wild patter in his chest a terrifying opposite to Sam’s, Dean shakes his brother hard, hands pressing into shoulders hard enough to bruise. Sam flops in the bed, hair glistening as it tumbles about his face, muscles lax under Dean’s fingers. “Sammy,” he shouts. “Sammy!” Terror drives his voice to echo around the stark room, a multitude of Dean’s crying out in pain.

As it becomes obvious there will be no response, Dean lets Sam drop back to the bed, still sleeping as peacefully as ever. Mind numb with panic, his legs give and he slides to the floor, landing in a heap, eyes fixed on his brother asleep in his bed.

***

He pulls himself up eventually, ruthlessly corralling panic into the dark spaces at the edge of his mind, insisting that competence take over. This is a case - that much is clear. So he lets routine guide him, brain switching into work-mode as he scans Sam’s room for quick clues, ignoring the tremble of his fingers as he rifles through his brother's privacy.

There’s nothing.

Refusing to let himself lose hope, he hurries from the room. His brain barely has the time to think _Where would Sammy have been_ before the answer pops into his head: wherever there were books.

Hurrying through tunnels ominous with chilled, industrial light, he checks the kitchen before he reaches the war room. As he had guessed, there’s a book laid open on the table, Sam’s plaid slung over the chair behind it.

Dean pauses in the archway, long practice pushing him into caution when he wants to scream with fear. There’s nothing out of place in the room other than the book; no sign of a struggle, no mysterious artefact abandoned on the floor, no poisoned food out on the table.

So: the book.

He approaches it cautiously. It’s not one he’s seen before; Sammy must have found it somewhere in the depths of the Bunker. The open pages are covered in archaic type and swirling, black-inked pictures; it takes Dean a moment to sort them into a castle surrounded by vicious thorns. Peering closer, he can sense the book’s age; that musty scent of old hits him square in the nose. A smell he associates with Sam; a smell Sam loves.

Pulling the sabre off the wall, he extends his arm and flips the book closed with the tip of the sword. With a satisfying thump, it reveals it’s title: _Storie Maledetti di Fatato._

The fuck, Dean thinks. The absolute fuck. Why his brother can’t read in English is beyond him.

Scrubbing at hand across his face, he considers his options. Cas, he thinks, fumbling for his phone, setting off speed dial 3 with fingers made clumsy by fear. But the phone rings and rings, hitting voicemail again and again and again. After his third voicemail has degenerated into a mixture of four-letter words and threats of violence, Dean reconsiders his options.

His options, he reflects, are limited. So it’s with eyes narrowed in fury that he scrolls down to R in his contacts.

“Dean,” Rowena purrs when the call connects. “What a pleasure.” Her tone makes it clear that it’s anything but. “Unless you’re calling to offer me some kind of invaluable magic artefact, I’m afraid I’m busy.”

“The hell you are. Something’s happened to Sam and you’re going to help.”

The negotiation takes an age; they eventually settle on Rowena gaining access to the Bunker’s library for one day, nothing to be removed, under supervision.

“So, what has poor dear Samuel managed to get himself into this time?” Rowena asks once they’ve come to their agreement.

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, frustrated. “He seems to be in some kind of enchanted sleep. I can’t find any clues except for a book; we haven’t been on a case recently or anything so it’s not just some kind of slow-acting curse.”

“What’s the book?”

“Storie Maledetti di Fatato,” Dean reads again. “It’s old. And in French or something.”

“That’s Italian, dear boy,” Rowena says with a chuckle. “Cursed Tales of the Faerie.”

A rush of cold prickles across Dean’s skin, memories of a field and a light and lost time so many years ago now. “Faerie?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes, Dean. They’re real, didn’t you know?”

“I have some idea, yes,” Dean grits out. “So what do we do?”

“Well, I’ll need to come and see the book, find out whether it is what’s caused poor Samuel to have such a long nap. Find out how to wake him up. Though maybe you should start with True Love’s Kiss? I’m sure that won’t be a trial for you.” Her voice descends into something sultry, teasing at the parts of Dean he keeps hidden from the world.

“Just get your ass here yesterday,” he growls, hanging up.

***

Rowena demands absolute quiet while she sits in front of the still-closed book, her hands held above it while a barely-there shimmer flickers between them. Dean shifts restlessly, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the table, resisting the urge to scream.

“Well,” Rowena says, in that drawl that inevitably makes him want to strangle her. “Well. I was only joking yesterday, even if I did hit a sore spot. But…”

She rises from the chair and walks towards him, fingertip trailing along the table in a mockery of seduction.

“True Love’s Kiss it is,” she finishes. “That’s the only way to break the curse.”

Dean glares. “As if,” he says. “Tell me the real cure.”

“That’s it, dear boy. That’s the only way. Find Sam’s true love, provide a kiss. He was reading Sleeping Beauty - surely you know the tale?”

Dean frowns, dim memories of a Disney film, a dragon, a tiny version of Sam terrified and screaming, clinging with spider-monkey arms, as they watched a castle surrounded by thorns go up in flames.

Fuck.

“You’re lying,” he insists.

“I’m afraid not.” The sheer level of smug joy radiating from her makes it clear that she’s not; she’s truly thrilled that somewhere out there, Sam has another true love. Somewhere out there, there’s someone Sam needs more than Dean.

“Ok then, we’ll destroy the book,” he suggests, red spots dancing before his eyes.

“That would be a foolish move,” Rowena points out. “We don’t know what that would mean for the curse. Most likely it wouldn’t cure your brother; worst case, it would mean an enchanted sleep forever.”

“Fucks sake,” Dean shouts, slamming his fist down on the table.

“I’ve already told you to try it yourself,” Rowena says, voice light with suppressed laughter. “Give your brother a little peck. Or a not so little one. But if you’re going down that route, let me just set my phone up to record first…”

“Get out,” Dean shouts. “If you’re not going to help, just leave.”

“Oh no dear, I’m going to wait until we’ve saved dear Samuel and then I want my time in your famous library. Or I could spend my time there while you save your brother, keep myself out of your way?”

“The hell you will,” Dean says. Even through the fog in his mind, he knows how bad an idea that would be. “We agreed on supervised access. You’ll wait in the kitchen.”

“How very dull,” Rowena replies, but she allows herself to be shepherded away from the cursed book and into the part of the Bunker where Dean feels she can do least harm. He plonks the whiskey decanter down in front of her.

“Here. This should keep you amused. Stay.”

“Terrible stuff,” Rowena says, taking a long sniff. “But, needs must.” She sinks into a chair and Dean turns away, already hurrying back to the cursed book.

***

He rifles through their library insistently, pulling out everything he can find on breaking curses - or at least the ones they have in English. Lugging them through the hallway, he settles in a chair next to Sam’s slumbering form, an intimidating pile of books next to him.

Hours pass as Dean flips through the pages, scanning for anything that might provide more value than Rowena’s answer. Despite his distaste for research, his life has given him the skills to scan pages quickly, taking in pertinent information and discarding the useless in a fashion that’s almost as effective as Sam, the king of research.

Sam sleeps on as he reads, shifting books from one side to another. His brother is unnaturally still, deep breaths and a very occasional flicker under his eyelids the only signs of life. Other than the pretty pink flush to his cheeks, Dean can’t help but notice, or the moistness of his lips.

Sam’s lips. Dean’s spent a fair part of his adult life (and far more of his late teens) trying _not_ to think about Sam’s lips. And now Rowena has shattered that careful denial.

They’re rosy and soft, with a sheen of moisture despite Sam’s long sleep. Dean wonders what it would be like to taste them, even if it were just to try and wake Sam. But he couldn’t do that to his brother; there’s no way that Sam would wake from Dean’s kiss, it would be entirely self-serving. If he can’t find anything in the books, he needs to think about who might be able to wake his brother.

That requires whiskey.

He treks to the war room and back, bottle dangling between his fingers. This will not require a glass.

Slumped back in the chair, he takes a long, burning swig, the liquor swirling down to meet the chasm in his stomach.

Back to the beginning, he thinks, fortifying himself with another gulp.

He quickly runs through a tally of all Sam’s school crushes, but other than Amy Pond, he knows Sam probably hasn’t spared them a thought in years. And he knows better than anyone that Amy Pond isn’t available to administer true love’s kiss.

Jess is long gone, and Sam’s made his peace with that. It took years, but Sam no longer shudders at the sight of tall girls with long blonde curls; Jessica is at rest. Sarah Blake - the perfect girl, the one he’d thought might derail their fledgling partnership when he and Sam were just hitting their stride - she’s gone too. And when they’d seen her again, in the minutes before Crowley’s curse struck, Sam had seemed nothing but professional and slightly awkward to have an old flame dragged into their mess.

Madison had been a sweet girl but her bond with Sam had been physical, not emotional - despite the pain of her passing. And Ruby. Well. The less said about her the better, but he’s confident that she wouldn’t be the one to break the kiss.

A hefty throatful of whiskey follows thoughts of Ruby, enough to make even Dean cough.

Piper, he thinks. The girl in the back seat. A passing fancy, if a pretty, perky and apparently kinky one. Dr Cara - not the siren, just a girl hot for a one-nighter with his brother. Who could blame her.

Finally. Amelia.

He’s been trying not to think her name. Always tries not to think her name. Thoughts of that time are still enough to send him into a jealous whirl; half ‘how dare my little brother not look for me’ and half ‘how dare my Sammy prioritise a girl over me’. Except, he tries to remind himself every time, Sam isn’t his Sammy; Sam has a right to his own life, deserves a shot at love if he can find it.

But Sam left Amelia, he reminds himself. Left Amelia and stayed with Dean, chose their life over her, has stayed with Dean ever since. He’s never really mentioned her, but Dean’s an expert in reading his little brother and it’s been years since he’s seen any sign of Sam checking up on her, caught any ominous silences that signal that kind of brooding. Sam’s never invented a reason to head back towards that part of Texas, never disappeared mysteriously the few times they’ve been down that way. In short, he doesn’t even appear to give her a passing thought anymore.

Dean can’t help the warm glow that suffuses his chest at that thought, warm enough that he doesn’t need another mouthful of whiskey.

He takes it anyway.

That’s it - an achingly brief list of women Sammy had been interested in, had tried to find normal with. Compared to the notches on Dean’s bed posts, it’s almost hilariously short; and so few have been meaningful. Even after this deeper reflection, he’s left with the same conclusion he started with: if Sam’s been hiding a true love all this time, he’s been hiding her expertly, because Dean doesn’t have a clue.

Dean rubs his hand across his face, frustrated. Another dead end.

Sam slumbers peacefully on, apparently waiting for a kiss from a non-existent woman.

He’s about to go and find Rowena again, demand she rethink her answer, when her words float back to him.

_Give your brother a little peck._

His lips tingle even at the thought; though perhaps that’s the phantom feeling of hell-fire taunting at him for such a terrible desire. Even if the incest weren’t wrong, even if it wasn’t something he’d been fighting all his life, desperate to keep this evil inside of him from tainting his brother - kissing someone when they’re sleeping is wrong.

But, his treacherous mind (or perhaps his downstairs brain) supplies. In the grand scheme of all the things he’s done to try and save Sam - demon deals, choosing not to shut the gates of hell, _Gadreel_ \- is this really so bad? It’s the work of a moment; if Sam doesn’t wake he’ll never know. It’s not like Dean’s going to go to town on him, sliding his tongue into his mouth, allowing his hands to wander over the skin he’s always wanted to touch. It would just be a peck.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, but Dean’s mind is suddenly made up. He stands, expecting his body to sway slightly with the liquor, hoping that his decision has been influenced by the amount he’s drunk, but he’s steady and clear as he walks towards the bed.

Sam’s still on his front, arm pillowing his head where it’s turned to one side, so Dean kneels, feeling almost reverent. This has always been his church, his religion; his love for Sam the one thing bigger than himself in his world.

He indulges himself for a moment, hand trembling as he tucks a strand of hair behind Sam’s ear. He can’t tell which is softer: Sam’s hair or his skin.

Focus, he reminds himself. This is for Sam, not for him. Only to save Sam.

Taking a deep breath, he leans down and presses his lips to his brother’s mouth.

***

That feeling of safety and warmth is still there when Sam wakes up, his body languorous and lax, well-rested in a way he can’t ever remember feeling. There are lips on his, both familiar and strange, just a gentle press that nevertheless sends heat spiralling through him even before his eyes open.

Instinctively, he reaches up with his hands to keep the person in place, finding short hair on a familiar neck, fingers arching to cup a beloved skull. He parts his lips slightly, seeking to deepen the kiss, his other arm snaking out to try and pull the person to him.

His brain is still too sleepy to formally identify the person he’s kissing, but he’s suffused with a fundamental feeling of rightness, of comfort, of want. His body loosens onto his back, preparing itself for the feeling of weight on top of him, for a longed-for body on top of his, but what he gets instead is cold, a lonely aching cold that shocks him into finally opening his eyes.

***

Dean’s heart races, his face suffused with colour, hands clenched into fists at his side.

He’s finally managed to stop himself, to pull back from the tiny peck that had become so much more when Sam awoke, warm and clingy as he’d always been even as his tongue slipped into Dean’s mouth.

Dean had lost all sense of right and wrong for a few minutes, had given in to years of repressed longing before he’d shaken himself free, come back to the mire of disgust he usually lives in. He wants to flee, is desperate to flee - but he needs to stay long enough to make sure his brother really is ok, that Sam’s not just awake but that he’s _Sam_.

(Because Sam would never have kissed you like that, his brain supplies, nasty and taunting.)

His brother’s eyes flicker open, slowly where they’re crusted with sleep. Sam pushes himself up, raising a hand to his lips to touch them faintly, exploring where they’re red and wet from kissing. Dean watches, a swirling mixture of relief and self-loathing and want. Sam’s so pretty like this, unguarded and young and flushed, his chest rising and falling in the beautiful motion so essential to Dean’s wellbeing.

“I-what?” Sam asks, brow scrunched in confusion.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asks, voice like sandpaper.

Sam’s eyes fly to his. “Fine,” he says, slowly. “Why?”

“You’ve been cursed, you’ve been asleep for days,” Dean replies. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up.”

“No,” Sam says. “Why did you kiss me?”

A beat, Dean’s heart in his throat. He’s poised, ready to flee; to grab his gun and his always-packed duffle, ready to jump into the Impala and leave Sam’s life forever.

“Why did you _stop_?”

Dean’s never dealt well when Sam uses that tone, hurt and desperate, echoing with childhood injury and terrified nights. He’s at Sam’s side before he realises his legs have carried him there, hand reaching out to grab Sam’s shoulder.

“No Sam, it was the only way to break the curse, to wake you up. Rowena said… anyway, I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For kissing you. I know it's wrong. So I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

There’s a pause again, but this time instead of readying his legs to run, Dean’s clenching his hands again, forcibly stopping himself from reaching out for Sam’s hair, his face, every bit of his beautiful body. It takes almost more willpower than he has, his muscles trembling with the strain.

He needn’t have bothered. Sam searches his face for a minute, multi-coloured eyes flickering intensely. He must like what he sees, because he reaches up, one big hand cupping Dean’s face with aching tenderness and the other taking a strong grip on Dean’s shoulder, anchoring him in place, before he pushes forward, their lips meeting again.

Dean’s brain explodes into fireworks, conscious thought scattered as he focuses down on the feeling of Sam’s lips against his, conscious and with consent this time. Sam moves softly for a moment, searching out Dean’s own consent, waiting no doubt in case Dean pulls away.

Dean wouldn’t move even if a stream of naked wendigos paraded through the room.

It takes only a few seconds for the kiss to change, soft and sweet turning hot and heavy, Sam’s hands desperate across his back, his sides, snaking up to his chest, into his hair, like Sam’s on a time limit to touch everything at once. Dean can’t help but respond, pushing forward until he’s fully on the bed, slotting between Sam’s legs and crushing down onto his body for maximum contact.

Sam gasps underneath him, skin on fire as he raises legs to wrap around Dean’s waist, locked tight. Dean shouldn’t be surprised; Sam always did cling whenever he got the chance.

“Shhh,” he says, breaking away for a brief, panted minute. “Not going anywhere.” They’re still so close his lips brush Sam’s as he speaks. He pulls back just far enough to kiss the tip of Sam’s nose before he’s tugged back, Sam’s hands scritching through his hair all the encouragement he needs.

Dean responds, holding himself up on one arm while he gets the other into Sam’s tangled mop of curls, tugging hard enough Sam’s throat is exposed. Sam responds with a high whine, legs convulsing around Dean’s ribs.

Dean scrapes his teeth down Sam’s neck, tasting sleep-sweet skin for the first time. Sam’s mouth, now freed, starts to run.

“Wanted this forever, jesus Dean, you have no idea, how has this happened, want you so much, please-”

He cuts off abruptly as Dean sinks his teeth in, words raising such fire in him he’s unable to resist marking up Sam’s throat. He worries the skin for a second, pulling and sucking until he’s sure there’ll be a mark, unable to resist staking a claim.

“Me too. And now everyone will know you’re mine,” he adds, viciously satisfied at the red stain on Sam’s neck.

Sam shudders, hand leaving Dean’s hair so his fingers can touch the mark, gently exploring. His eyes close for a second, a look of wonder crossing his face.

“Always been yours. Mark me up _everywhere_.”

The brief pause is over as Dean clashes his mouth back onto Sam’s, biting at his lips this time. Sam’s hands scrabble at his henley, pulling it up to get at skin, and Dean’s body reacts on auto-pilot, shrugging it off as quickly as he can to get his mouth back on Sam. But something wakes in his brain, overriding the desperate urge to kiss: the idea of skin.

“Yours,” he pants, pulling at Sam’s clothes.

It takes a few moments of awkward scrambling but then they’re naked, burning skin to burning skin, Sam’s long, muscled legs wrapped back around him. Dean can see the tattoo now, the twin to his own, and he swoops down to bite there too, leaving a red stain around it that will turn into a pleasing bruise by the morning. Sam’s hips are restless under him as sucks, his cock slotting against Dean’s, pre-come from both aiding the movement.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to fuck Sam, to take all of his brother, bring to life the fantasies he’s been repressing for years. Sam’s under him, clearly willing, but Dean knows with aching clarity they aren’t going to make it that far.

Entranced by Sam’s face, the way it’s scrunching in pleasure, he concentrates on the motion of his hips, pushing down as Sam arches up. It’s a rhythm as old as time, as familiar as the man beneath him, and watches as Sam starts to lose it.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” his brother chants, nails breaking the skin on Dean’s back as he clutches and grasps. There’s no room for air between them, bodies as close as can be, and that’s the way it should always be, Dean’s mind supplies in a moment of startling clarity. All these years, he’s been seeking this out every time they sit shoulder to shoulder, every time their knees press under a diner table or their feet scrabble together on a motel room floor. His body knowing far better than his mind, seeking proximity to Sam at every turn.

And now, the ultimate proximity, Sam’s body moulded to his as one last sharp thrust of Dean’s hips sends him flying, head snapping back so fast they almost crack heads. Dean sinks his teeth into Sam’s neck again, holding on as Sam releases between them, the sudden sharp smell of his brother driving him over the edge himself.

They’re still a tangled knot when he comes back to himself, his head buried in Sam’s neck. He laps at the sweat at the hollow of Sam’s throat on auto-pilot; another long-repressed desire given action. Sam’s hands dig in to him again as he does, but his brother’s legs slacken finally, slipping from their hold on Dean’s hips to slide alongside his own.

With great effort, Dean pushes himself slightly to the side, taking his weight off Sam’s ribs while keeping the maximum amount of contact between them. His face lands next to Sam’s, eyes idly admiring the patches on Sam’s throat.

“Muh,” Sam says, mouth working but no words coming out as he manages to turn his head towards Dean. His eyes are unfocused, blinking slowly as he comes back to himself. Dean’s suddenly filled with fear that Sam hadn’t wanted this, had still been half asleep or worse, somehow cursed; that he’d taken and broken and ruined everything.

“Don’t,” Sam says, eyes finally locking with Dean’s, voice a raspy mess. “Don’t. I see you. I wanted this.”

Dean recognises that tone as well as the plaintive one Sam had used earlier; it’s Sam’s “I know my own mind” voice, the one he’d used again and again as a teenager when complaining about hunting, as an adult when insisting Dean stop protecting him. It settles something deep inside Dean, the sound as viscerally reassuring as the words are comforting.

He relaxes, body settling back against Sam’s. He can feel sleep curling over him, the satisfaction of a good orgasm combining with the worry of the last few days to form a deep, boneless exhaustion.

“So, cursed sleep, huh?” Sam says.

“Yeah. You’ve probably never slept so much in your life,” Dean mumbles.

“Explains why I’m so ready for round two,” Sam replies, teasing, jerking his chin towards his renewed erection curving towards his stomach.

But Dean’s already asleep, secure in the knowledge Sam’s safe in his bed, in his arms.

***

Sam tries to stay still, he really does. That same feeling of warmth, comfort, security, is cocooned around him, emanating from his brother’s body. Years worth of his dreams have just come true, and he’s pretty sure they’re going to come true again and again and again as soon as Dean wakes up. If Sam has anything to say about it, he’s going to be making his dreams come true at least twice a day for the rest of his life. And in between, like now, he’s going to soak up Dean’s affection, the rare touches hopefully becoming far more frequent from now on.

But.

He’s apparently been asleep for some time, and his body has other needs than soaking up the feeling of his brother spooned alongside him, as frustrating as that is. Sam’s bladder is clamouring loudly, and it’s not long before he slides himself out of Dean’s arms as carefully as he can, pausing to swipe his thumb across a perfect cheekbone. He’d like to do more but… well..bladder.

He heads from the bathroom towards the kitchen. His bladder might have been angry, but he can also feel the unfortunately well-known tendrils of dehydration tingling at the edges of his body. He’ll down some water, see what he can grab from the fridge to eat on the walk down the hallway, and he’ll be back in bed beside his brother in no time.

“Ah, true love’s kiss did work, I see.”

Sam nearly stumbles into the wall at the unexpected voice before his instincts kick in and he spins. He doesn’t have a weapon, too at home in the Bunker to have picked up his gun, but luckily he recognises Rowena before he grabs whatever’s to hand and attacks.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice barely above a growl after days of misuse

“Your dear brother called me in for support. And I see I was right, true love’s kiss did rouse sleeping beauty. I’ll be sure to remind you of that next time you both doubt me.”

“What?” Sam’s brain is stuck somewhere around ‘true love’.

“I told your brother that the only way to break the curse was a kiss from your true love. I suggested he try a little peck himself. Giving that you’re up and lumbering around, I assume it worked.”

True love.

He knows it’s true for himself, Dean’s always been the bright shining centre of his world. But for Dean… he can’t believe it. Despite everything that’s happened since he woke up, it can’t be true.

“Your true love, and his.” Rowena adds this last softly, a rare moment of humanity shining through her usual brittle veneer.

Sam’s mouth splits into a smile, his dimples popping out as he presses his hand over his tattoo.

True love.

“So, now that you’re clearly awake and my advice clearly worked, I’ll just take myself off to the library to find my reward. I’m sure you and Dean have better things to be doing than paying attention to little old me…”

Sam groans, burying his head in his hands. Clearly he’s not going to be getting back into bed with Dean anytime soon.


End file.
